The Last Dream Song
by thewrinkleintime
Summary: Clint takes in the mess and thinks: this looks bad.


Notes: Clint's character draws heavily from Matt Fraction's Hawkeye, and a few other things are lifted from the comics. If you have not read the comics, then all you need to know is that Clint is friends with Kate Bishop (a Young Avenger), who also goes by Hawkeye, and he has a dog named Lucky that he took from some criminals (the Tracksuit Dracula's).

Warnings for self harm and potentially graphic imagery.

I tried to make this as realistic as possible, but I only know the protocol in my local ER, and other people may have had different experiences with hospitals and SI. Also I realize that for some people the severity of the self harm portrayed in the story may seem extreme. I am only writing what I know, and as someone who frequently requires sutures I am used to this level of self harm. I want to make clear however, that it is not normal, and any level of self harm is an issue. You do not have to be self harming to the extent portrayed in the story in order to receive help.

* * *

Clint is eating lucky charms with a soup spoon on his sofa, watching the news. It's the usual stuff, nothing too interesting, until a segment on the Avengers comes on. The piece is titled 'More Harm than Good?' and questions whether the collateral damage was outweighed by the good or not. Clint hates news pieces and articles like this, because it is exactly what he asks himself every day: "Am I doing more harm than good? Am I just a weapon meant to hurt people?"

He stares at cereal, reminding himself of every civilian casualty he was directly or indirectly responsible for. By the time he is through the marshmallows have started to disintegrate.

Clint tries to go on with his day, but part of his brain just keeps repeating over and over _It's your fault. It's all your fault._ He does a load of dishes. _It's your fault_. He takes Lucky for a walk. _It's your fault_. He catches up on paperwork. _It's all your fault. It's all your fault. It's all your fault_. Finally he caves.

He gets down his box of tools from the shelf in his closet and lays out his supplies on the bathroom counter. It had been a while since he'd done this, but already the thoughts are slowing down.

Clint takes a few moments to examine his arm; there is a lot of scar tissue and not a lot of room left. When he finds a suitable spot, he cleans the area and begins. By the time he is finished his mind is clear. At least for a few minutes, until Clint realizes how deep he has cut. He takes in the mess and thinks: _this looks bad_. He tries applying pressure to the wound, but it is gaping so much that even if he got the bleeding to stop he would still need a way to close it.

Which is how he finds himself in the triage room of the ER, nervously trying to tell the nurse what exactly had happened.

* * *

"You did this yourself?" the nurse asks.

"Yeah. Not having a good day."

"What did you use?"

"A razor."

"And how long ago was this?" she asks.

"About 40 minutes."

The nurse types the information into the computer. She doesn't look surprised, or freaked out. Clint supposes that he's just another patient, and she's just doing her job. She asks him what medications he's on, what surgeries he's had, and if he's ever had MRSA.

"Are you planning on hurting yourself while you're in the ER?"

"No."

"Alright then, come with me."

She leads him down a hall and into a plain room. It's empty except for a hospital bed and a chair.

"Here's a gown, change into this. Put all your belongings in this bag. We'll hold everything for you at the nurses' station."

Clint does as directed. He's starting to feel like this isn't the standard ER protocol. He's proven right when another ER staff member comes and sits in a chair against the wall opposite the door, alternating between looking at their clipboard and at Clint. Clint feels exposed.

A physician's assistant comes in after a while and takes a look at the wound. He experimentally closes the wound with his fingers.

"This is going to need sutures, but it should come together nicely."

Clint nods. He's starting to feel weird, like he's not really there. The physician's assistant, whose name Clint learns is David, cleans the wound. When that's done he numbs the area with a needle full of lidocaine and starts the sutures. Clint watches with a morbid fascination as his skin is knit back together. David's in the army, Clint discovers, but also has three young kids. He tells Clint a few stories about them as he works.

10 stitches later and Clint is once again in one piece.

"It's not our policy to let people with self inflicted injuries to just go home after presenting in the emergency room," David says as he cleans up Clint's arm. "We'd rather you have someone you can stay with, or someone that can check in on you. Is there someone you can call?"

Clint thinks about it. Natasha just got back from some hush-hush mission so he doesn't want to bother her. He doubts the ER is going to let Kate come and get him. He looks through the contacts list on his phone (which a nurse finally gave back to him after taking it apart to check for hidden sharps). It's not a long list. He looks at the names and crosses each one off mentally until he's left with just one. He dials the number.

"Banner, hi. I need a favor."

* * *

Banner shows up at the ER 20 minutes later, looking slightly disheveled in his rumpled button-down. He takes in the bandage on Clint's arm and the near-empty room.

"Psych protocol."

"What?"

"They usually reserve rooms like this for patients who are a danger to themselves. And they've got you on a one-to-one," Banner gestures to the nurse sitting outside.

"How do you know this?" Clint asks.

"I've worked in ERs before," Banner says, not quite looking Clint in the eye. Clint thinks there's more to it than that, but he lets it go.

A nurse comes in with some paperwork and discharge instructions. When that's all settled he's finally allowed to leave. Banner drops Clint off in Brooklyn.

"I know this is probably awkward for you, but I don't think any less of you. If you need to talk, or need anything really, I'm around."

Clint doesn't really know what to say to that. He's not used to people offering to help. Usually they take one look at his fucked-up life and walk back out. Clint can't blame them. He awkwardly thanks Banner and clambers out of the car.

* * *

Clint walks into his apartment to find a frantic Kate Bishop pacing back and forth. He glances around for the source of her distress.

"What's going on?"

Kate looks incredulous. "What's going on? I'll tell you what's going on. I come over to play with Lucky and watch crappy TV and I find a bloody bathroom and an open package of razors."

"I got it fixed though." Clint gestures towards his bandaged arm. "Doc sewed me up. Good as new."

Kate gives him her best glare. "Not good as new. You sliced yourself up and you expect everyone to be okay with it? Well I'm not."

"Sorry?" Clint doesn't really know what to say. He's not used to people caring so much about his wellbeing.

Kate sighs. "I'm going to clean up the bathroom. You're going to sit on the sofa and not move."

Clint does as directed. Lucky comes over and climbs up onto the couch, resting his head in Clint's lap. Clint closes his eyes and wonders when his life became such a mess.

* * *

Natasha shows up that night with Chinese food and a not-so-friendly punch to the shoulder.

"You're supposed to call me before you do stupid shit. I know I just got back, but you still should have called. Kate texted me. She's worried about you."

"I'm fine," Clint insists. He doesn't understand why everyone is so upset. He's also slightly alarmed that Kate and Natasha apparently text each other. Natasha just gives him a look.

"Okay, maybe not fine, but I'm not in some crisis. I just went a little too deep, that's all." It's not like this is the first time Clint has hurt himself on purpose.

Natasha huffs and pushes past him into the apartment. "Idiot."

* * *

Clint does pretty good for a while after that. He keeps busy with rooftop cook-outs and taking Lucky to the park. Kate comes over occasionally to watch Mythbusters, and Clint goes down to the range about twice a week to practice. Everything is going relatively well for once (no immediate threats to his life, Tracksuit Draculas are nowhere to be seen, and SHIELD hasn't bothered him in weeks) when it all goes to hell.

Clint misses.

To anyone else it wouldn't be a big deal, they'd shrug it off and keep going. But Clint doesn't miss. He doesn't. So when he somehow misses a target in the middle of a Skrull invasion that he was helping the Young Avengers deal with, it's big.

No one else on the team mentions it, he doubts most of them even noticed the mistake in the first place, but that doesn't stop Clint from turning it over and over in his head. He failed. He could have hurt someone or even caused a casualty. He shouldn't even be out in the field if he can't hit a target. SHIELD was probably just humoring him by keeping him on the payroll. He wasn't needed. He was a liability.

He stops by the drug store on the way back to Brooklyn and buys a new box of razors. He hurries home, the desire to punish himself tangible in its enormity.

He gathers his supplies (towels, gauze, antiseptic) and shuts himself in the bathroom, heart beating furiously in his chest. He's a fuck-up. He deserves to hurt and bleed.

He sits on the floor with the towel in his lap and takes out a razor. He closes his eyes. Breathes in. Breathes out. He opens his eyes and begins. There is no hesitation as he drags the blade across the back of his arm. The skin opens easily, exposing the subcutaneous fat. It's not enough. He lifts the razor to make another cut, this one deeper. The skin parts again, this time even wider. Blood sprays in a small arch from the wound.

"Futz."

He panics for a moment before hastily covering the wound with a wad of gauze. He tries to put pressure on it while also reaching for his cell. He mostly fails and blood drips onto the floor. He gives up on the phone. He decides to wrap his arm as tight as he can and heads to the ER, heart pounding and head light.

* * *

The nurse at the desk eyes the blood-soaked bandage and ushers him right into triage. Lisa, the nurse, asks him what happened. He tries to tell her but mostly stumbles over his words. She takes one look at the wound and the arterial spray that occurs as soon as the bandage comes off and leads him back to the weird empty room. Clint thinks he must have really messed up to be getting such prompt treatment.

Lisa has him get up on the hospital bed and puts an absorbent pad under his arm. He doesn't have to wait long before a doctor comes in. It's the same doctor as last time, David or whatever.

"Clint, I was hoping not to see you here again. What happened tonight?"

"Had another bad day."

David removes the bandage and examines the wound. "It looks like you nicked the radial artery," he says. "I think a couple of well-placed horizontal mattress sutures should fix it though."

Clint isn't sure what that means exactly, but he starts to calm down.

This time the ER calls in a crisis counselor to talk with Clint.

A woman about Clint's age comes into his room. She looks nice enough, but Clint is starting to get tired of explaining things.

"Hi Clint, I'm Emily, I work with the hospital's psych program. Can you tell me a bit about what went on tonight?"

Clint tries to explain what happened, how he missed a target and how that triggered something in him, something big and dark and sharp. Emily takes it all in, listening to Clint's rambling, disjointed story.

"Well Clint, in most cases like this I would suggest a short inpatient stay, but I know your circumstances are special. If you're really adamant about not being admitted, then what we can do is have you stay somewhere where you'll be safe for the next few days, until you get an appointment set up with a therapist."

Clint thinks about this. He doesn't want to stay with Nat, for some reason he can't really explain. He just doesn't think she gets this sort of thing. Natasha is all about survival, not destruction.

* * *

Banner doesn't even hesitate, just says, "I'll be right there." Clint wonders what he ever did to deserve someone like Banner, someone who would drop everything to help him.

Banner pulls up next to what looks like an old Victorian house that's been divided into apartments. He leads Clint around the side to his unit. The entryway is dark, but it leads into a nicely furnished kitchen. Clint had been expecting test tubes and lab equipment, but everything looks neat and normal. There is a large spice rack and a hanging set of pots that suggests Banner does a lot of cooking.

"Feel free to grab anything from the fridge," Banner says, before showing Clint to the living room. "The couch folds out and I have some spare blankets in the linen closet. Anything else you need, just ask."

* * *

Over the next 48 hours Clint discovers several things about Bruce (and it's Bruce now, not Banner). Bruce owns more than one pair of Hulk-themed pajama bottoms, something he made Clint swear not to tell the rest of the team about; he's an excellent cook, though he doesn't cook for himself very often; he watches children's cartoons in other languages; and he's actually pretty fun to be around. Bruce also seems to take most everything in stride; not much phases him.

They talk about random stuff, the two of them have more in common than Clint had thought, and the topic of self harm doesn't come up until the second morning.

Clint is sitting on Bruce's couch, unhappily eating non-sugared cereal with a normal spoon, when Bruce broaches the subject.

"Why do you hurt yourself?" Clint looks up from his bowl of gross, healthy bran flakes and pauses.

"Sorry," Bruce apologizes. "That's a big question. You don't have to talk to me about this if you don't want to."

"No, it's fine." Clint thinks about how to explain it, how to explain the overwhelming desire to cause damage to himself, how to explain the relief that comes with the flow of blood.

"Sometimes it's because I want to punish myself, like the other day. Other times it's just a reaction to distress. My thoughts won't stop and it's overwhelming, but when I cut it makes it better. At least for a while."

"When did you start?"

"When I was 15. It's been on and off since then." There was a period of time stretching several years in his early twenties in which Clint only self harmed once, though he's had times where the frequency increases to almost every day.

Bruce nods. "Thanks, by the way."

"For what?" Clint asks.

"For trusting me. Not many people do. They look at me and they see a weapon, or a potential disaster, not someone who can be relied on."

"That's bullshit," Clint says. "You're one of the most reliable people I know. And I do trust you, I wouldn't have gone to you the first time if I hadn't." There's a lengthy pause in which Clint starts to think he's said something wrong.

Finally Banner speaks up. "I should have told you sooner, but about 6 years ago I tried to kill myself."

Clint isn't really sure what the appropriate response is, so he sets down his cereal (which is soggy now anyways), and goes over to Bruce. "Can I hug you?" He knows Bruce doesn't always like physical contact, and he doesn't want to make this harder than it must already be for him. Instead of answering Bruce wraps his arms around Clint and rests his head on his shoulder. Bruce lets out a breath.

After a while Clint pulls back.

"Want to watch a movie?"

Bruce smiles and they go look at the DVDs.

* * *

Clint leaves Bruce's apartment the following day with a plastic container full of curry and an appointment with a therapist for the next day.

It's a bit much to think about, opening up to a complete stranger, but maybe it's what he needs. Maybe things aren't as okay as he likes to make them seem, and maybe it's time for that to change.

Jason, Clint's therapist, is actually pretty great. He doesn't demand that Clint stop hurting himself, only that he start trying other coping skills first. "It shouldn't be your first response to everything that causes you even a little distress," Jason explains. "The goal is for you to get to a point where when you do have urges, you're able to handle them using healthy alternatives. But that's not going to happen overnight. Recovery takes time, and relapse is okay."

* * *

Bruce invites Clint and Natasha over for dinner one Thursday when none of them have anywhere else to be. Natasha and Bruce end up bonding over Harry Potter of all things. Clint enjoys listening to their banter, which is in turns friendly and scathing (Natasha takes Slytherin House pride very seriously).

Eventually it starts to get late, and Natasha makes her exit. She kisses Clint on the top of his head, much to Bruce's amusement and Clint's embarrassment.

"I have an early meeting tomorrow. Goodnight boys."

Clint and Bruce end up on the couch watching Mythbusters. Bruce critiques Adam and Jamie's scientific methods, while Clint just enjoys the explosions and Adam's antics. Part way into the second episode Clint finds himself drifting off. Somehow he's closer to Bruce than when he sat down, but he's too tired to figure out how exactly that happened.

He wakes up snuggled into Bruce's side. The clock above the television reads 4:00 am, and Bruce is asleep. Clint extracts himself carefully, making sure not to wake him. He leaves a short note on the coffee table and heads home.

Clint spends the ride home feeling like he's missing something, like he's left something important behind. He's tired and not thinking clearly, and whatever it is stays just out of grasp. Finally, as he nudges Lucky off his bed and crawls under the covers, he realizes the thing he's missing isn't a thing at all, it's Bruce. He decides to figure out what that means later.

* * *

Later that morning Clint makes a pot of coffee only to find that there are no clean mugs. He's drinking straight from the pot when Kate walks in the door. She starts ranting about stupidly hot girls and mixed signals, but stops when she sees Clint. Clint hadn't really been listening anyways, he was thinking about what it was like to wake up next to Bruce.

"What's with you?" Kate asks.

"What do you mean?"

"You're standing in the kitchen at 7 in the morning with a dopey smile on your face. Either you've been replaced or something has made you unusually happy. What did you do last night?"

"I was at Bruce's place-what's that look for?"

"I knew it! You like him!"

Clint rolls his eyes. "What are you, nine?"

"Well you do, don't you?" Kate presses.

"Yeah," Clint mutters into the coffee pot, "I really do."

* * *

Clint and Bruce are in the park, having just taken Lucky for a walk. It feels overly domestic, but Clint likes it so he doesn't care. He could use some normalcy; they both could.

"I used to have a dog," Bruce says, looking wistful as he scratches Lucky behind the ears. Clint doesn't ask what happened to it.

They sit and enjoy the sun and the breeze, watching Lucky run back and forth with a mud-covered stick. It's nice, really nice, to have someone to just be with. Clint feels comfortable around Bruce, and Bruce has proven himself to be someone Clint can trust and rely on. He doesn't want to lose him.

Clint decides something in that moment, tired of waiting. He reaches over and takes Bruce's hand in his, giving it an experimental squeeze. For a moment he thinks he's misread the situation, but after a few seconds Bruce returns his grip.

They stay in the park for several hours, watching the people disperse and the sun begin to set. Every now and then Clint or Bruce will squeeze their hand, and after a beat the other will return it.

* * *

Clint is in his bathroom staring at the package of blades. He's been clean for nearly a month, but the urge is getting overwhelming. He's had a shitty week and he knows that hurting himself will make him feel better, at least for a while.

He's only going to make one cut. Just to get some relief.

One cut turns into two, two turns into three, and three turns into way too many and oh shit what has he done. There is a growing puddle of blood on the bathroom floor and Clint feels a bit weak.

He calls Bruce.

"I messed up. I messed up big time."

"Clint? What's going on?"

Clint explains what he's done.

"I'm on my way."

Bruce helps him get to the hospital.

Clint is feeling too out of it to really keep track of what's happening, but he knows that Bruce stayed with him the entire time. He ends up getting five wounds sutured and another 4 closed with skin glue. He has an emergency appointment with his therapist for the next morning, and he promises to stay safe until then.

Bruce stays the night, though Clint had tried to tell him he didn't have to. Bruce won't listen to his protestations though, and just digs through Clint's disorganized closet until he finds an old blanket. He sets himself up on Clint's shitty couch, insists that he's perfectly fine ("I've slept on far worse things than this couch, Clint") and pulls a book out of his bag. Clint get a headache just from reading the title.

* * *

Clint finds Bruce in his kitchen the next morning, cooking omelets and bacon. Clint didn't even know he had the stuff for omelets. He tells Bruce as such.

"I know, your fridge is disgusting. I ran to the store while you were sleeping."

Clint goes to make himself a pot of coffee.

"So. Do you want to talk about what happened yesterday?" Bruce asks as he flips the omelet.

"I don't know. It just wasn't enough." Clint stares at the grimy tabletop.

"What wasn't enough?"

"The first cut I made. It wasn't enough, so I kept going. But none of them were enough."

"What would have been enough?" Bruce sets a plate in front of Clint before taking a seat at the table.

"I don't know. I don't know if anything would have been enough. If I hadn't called you I probably would have just kept going."

"I'm glad you called me."

Clint frowns. "Aren't you getting sick of dealing with my crap though?"

"No. I'd rather you not have such awful crap to deal with in the first place, but you do, and I want to help you through it."

"But what about when I'm better?" _If that ever happens_, Clint thinks.

Bruce reaches across the table and takes Clint's fidgeting hands in his. "I'm not going anywhere. I care about you. Now eat your omelet."

* * *

_Three months later_

Clint gathers up all his blades and puts them in a plastic bag. He marches down the hall to the trash chute, determined to get rid of them for the last time. He'd talked about this with Jason, about how even though he can always buy more razors the act of throwing away the blades is a symbolic recognition of his willingness to move on. It's a big step forward. He's about to drop them down the chute when he pauses. Something is stopping him from throwing them out. Over the next ten minutes he comes up with all sorts of rationalizations for keeping the blades. He's still wavering when his phone rings.

"Yeah."

"Hey Clint, it's Bruce. Just wanted to know if you were free tonight, I'm making Indian."

Clint looks at the bag in his hand. He drops it into the trash and goes back into his apartment. "Yeah, I'm free. Indian sounds great."


End file.
